yppahpeek

A spare corner room. One bed and en-suite bathroom. Previous owners. Disinfectant. Smells. Those of urine and hand gel. Squeaky, lino floor. A beeping next door. People coming to and fro, But not this room here. This room eats people. It swallows them whole, I've heard. And spits out fam'ly. Other rooms. More light. People go, able to fight. Happier places. Here's just an ending. A locked door hides suffering. Others, ignorant.

A greed agreed. It's what I want, who cares what I need? Stand in my place at the shop door, and I'll stomp your face on the shop floor. Braced against cold and credit since midnight, wondering who of these others I will have to fight.  No one will look down on me, with my brand new, 50 inch TV.

There are times when it flows. Carving curves into the tarmac track, mirroring the trails of planes as they streak the sky. Banking left through Battersea Park. Emptied of the day-trippers, the joggers, the dogs and filled with the breeze, the quiet, the dark. Street lamps shape the runway ahead. Inviting and free and mine for a while. I switch up gears and I fly.